Hope
by Reality's Runaway
Summary: What happened before Hope Cosworth and George Boleyn became victims of Henry VIII's reign.


Hope

Hope

London came as quite the shock to me – its sheer size, overpowering odor, sounds, and people; I was completely and utterly stupefied. Having spent my entire life thus far – eighteen relatively quiet years – milling in the country, living amongst trees and grass and flowers, venturing no more than a dozen miles or so from my rural abode, I found that my arrival in London painfully awakened me to the severity of my naïveté. The moment the large expanse of houses, steeples, and towers appeared over the hill like a vast, intimidating army, I gasped rather audibly. Immediately, I blushed, though I was completely alone – only Hestia and I stood on the frigid, barren hill where the wind chilled my bones and numbed my small, unguarded fingers. I vigorously massaged poor Hestia's neck in an attempt to settle and warm her. Needless to say, my little, dainty country horse, undoubtedly as nervous as I, was a poor companion. She had already begun to twitch her ears in nervousness. Her body tensed under my legs. As I gently nudged her down the knoll towards the city gates, I felt as if I had crossed that pivotal line that separates comfort from risk. Behind me lie home and memories. Before me lie danger, uncertainty, and an entirely new life.

And George.



The Cosworth Family was habitually impecunious. With my father a drunkard and my mother quite a frivolous woman, what little money that did find its way into our meager home usually disappeared within the week. My mother lacked any restraint, and common sense, and believed our ramshackle cottage deserved as much adornment as Hever Castle itself – thankfully, her ill-judgment and wasteful spending practices did not seem to be inheritable traits, and my brother and I were spared from such inane thinking. Father ridiculed Mother's uneconomical lifestyle forthright, but generally there was a lone jug of ale whose finishing was of greater importance than demonstrating his naturally assumed autocratic control of the Cosworth household. Thus, Mother's expenditures went unchecked – seemingly without care as to how Father would pay for my dowry. Once, she pejoratively remarked that as I was too small to ever make a decent wife, much less _attract_ any man, concern for my dowry was unnecessary.

As I had neither the strength of character to criticize my mother, nor any means of independent income, security for my future was left in the hands of my parsimonious brother, Piers. Piers, being six years older than I and astutely aware of our parents' shortcomings even at his young age, regarded me as his charge, rather than a tiny, interfering sibling. Though I admit I know precious little about the world – my education being limited to what Piers and my spinster Aunt Margaret taught me – I declare without hesitation that my brother is more a genius than Aristotle, Plato, or Virgil ever were. And is beautiful, impromptu verses rivaled those of any Greek poet. He made the finest gloves with such accuracy that tools of measurement became superfluous in his shop (actually, it was Father's shop, but the moment Piers was capable of making even the crudest pair of gloves, Father abandoned that line of work and headed to the fields, where he could plow with one hand and drink with the other). Piers could domesticate even the most unruly of beasts; all of Hever stood amazed when his rehabilitated wild falcon flew out and caught a rabbit for the first time – seeing the captious Anne Boleyn, eldest daughter of our lord and lady, cover her mouth with surprise is a sight I shall never forget.

From training animals, to crafting gloves worthy of royalty, to his penchant for mathematics, to writing verses by candlelight that surpassed all I had ever read, Piers never ceased to astonish me. He had a true brother's heart and all the makings of a gentleman. It was not surprising then that he outgrew Hever; even my dolt of a mother realized he belonged in school long before I was born.

Sending the son of a poor peasant off to be educated was, and is, of course, rather taboo. Five years was required before Sir Thomas Boleyn, the Lord of Hever Castle, agreed to finance Piers's schooling. My brother had taught himself to read and write and was as prepared for a formal education as any boy could have been, but only when he humbly corrected one of Sir Thomas's own mathematical mistakes was the man convinced. Thus, in 1512, when I was only eight years old, my dear Piers left for Oxford; though I hated myself for letting selfish feelings override my happiness at seeing my own elder brother off to university, I could not but help weep as my sweet, loving Piers trotted slowly away from Hever. With every turn of the wagon wheels, I felt my loneliness grow more acute. My mother's timely caustic comment, though I admit the same observation was fresh in my mind, sent a fresh wave of tears down my freckled face: "Look 'ere, my one good child gone off to be bookish – now it's jus' me, my useless husband, and my equally useless daughter."

While the pain of Piers's removal to London – an immense thirty miles away – still touches me to this day, I now realize it was a rather felicitous event in my life. Not two days after he departed, a meeting under the hot June sun would change my life forever. I was pulling weeds in the garden – typically my mother's task, but as an ill-timed sprained ankle left her debilitated in bed, the tedious job was left to me – still crying for Piers and hungry because my mother refused to feed me until every dandelion and other difficult nuisance had been pulled; looking back with that ironically clear hindsight, I could have easily walked right past the crippled crone and taken my own meal, but in my youth, my small size and complacent demeanor left me feeling bound to do as I was told, as if some terrible fate would descend upon me if I was to ever disobey.

I bent over in the hot sun, cursing its powerful, laughing smile as I toiled away. Despite years of working out of doors and in rather dirty conditions, my hands were still tender and my skin still fair. The thick weeds sliced open my fingers. The sun reddened any uncovered flesh. I was by no means a lazy child, but my interests lay indoors – cooking was my métier and in the kitchen I found happiness. I cried at my mother's injustice and then sobbed fresh tears any time Piers's face appeared in my head. It was in this miserable and pitiful state George Boleyn found me that afternoon; when I came to my senses, I wished I had at least a moment's notice to make myself presentable for Sir Thomas's son, for I was sure I looked dreadful.

"Hello," he said quickly, as if he had been preparing another introduction but failed at the last moment. Neither caring about my appearance nor about who this visitor might be, I merely glanced behind me, derrière still in the air.

George Boleyn I knew well enough, but for the past couple years, I had generally avoided the Boleyn children in fear of the eldest, Anne, whose notoriously foul mood and biting tongue scared me to the bone; being three years my elder was reason enough for her to appear a terrifying creature in my mind. When her family first assumed residence at Hever Castle, I was three years old, and sweet Lady Elizabeth allowed her children to play with those of the peasants; she quickly took a liking to me, as my brother recalled, and memories of Anne, Mary, and George are all a happy hodgepodge in my mind up until my seventh year. At that time, Anne was quickly becoming a dominant and intimidating girl – a fierce, jaundiced look from her after I won a race in the fields one afternoon sent me running home to Piers. I evaded her at all costs afterwards, and for years Anne and I rarely interacted – not difficult considering her status and mine were, and still are, markedly distinct.

Upon realizing the visitor was George that afternoon, the fear that Anne might be nearby suddenly gripped me, and I hastily gathered myself together, issuing a humble curtsy. I believe he knew the exact cause of my anxiety, and he gave a sudden smile, holding out a handful of freshly picked poppy flowers – which I noticed were only slightly redder than his cheeks. "She's not here."

This small assurance did much to calm my nerves and I skipped over to the fence to see my old friend. A short exchange of flowers and words followed, during which I was elated to learn that Anne had been sent to the Netherlands to live in the court of some archduchess. I do not believe I have ever been so sure of Providence in my life. It quickly dawned upon me that while God had removed Piers from my life, he had returned my friendship with George. That night, I uttered a very lengthy and grateful prayer – I even combed my incapacitated mother's ugly hair and delighted her with my best soup in bed. "You might make some man happy, after all," she commented that evening. I doubt she had yet to concern herself with my dowry.

With all worries of Anne ousted from my thoughts and a few prosperous summers, I spent the next six years of my life in youthful revelry, free from many cares or much sadness – apart from the occasional painful reminder of Piers's absence. Whenever I could escape the tedious chores Mother assigned me and Father's daily outbursts – as he had recently been deprived of his beer; Mother had put a firm foot down and even Sir Thomas threatened to turn Father out should he continue his drunkard ways – I fled to the fields and forests to play with George and Mary. Whether feigning to drown in the streams and ponds so George could gallantly rescue me, or racing up the hills only to roll down again, or protecting our castle – the mighty tree at the top of Coney Knoll – from fire-breathing dragons, I never wanted the days to end; but, they always did and the months and years flew by though, of course, as a child I paid little heed to their preciousness. George took Pier's place in my life – though not yet in my heart – and Mary became the gentle sister I never had. She was a constant presence, but she often left the revelries and tussles to me and George while she read under a nearby tree or plucked flowers a safe distance away from our wayward sword-sticks and exhausting hide-and-seek games.

I was generally guided by the same precepts that guided Mary – "pride goeth before destruction" and Christ's teaching about the meek inheriting the earth, being exceptionally close to my heart. But George's presence acted like a mirror upon my core that revealed the tumultuous, sizzling life within my outwardly submissive, frail body. When docile Mary, who saw him as nothing more than a darling little brother, was sent to France in 1514, George and I, both bereft of siblings, became attached at the hip. He became my closest friend and the outlet for my soul, which, though meek, was burning with passion. I was warrior princess or a magnificent fairy queen in George's eyes, and though I barely reached his shoulder at age fourteen – and showed no signs of womanly maturity in the near future – the way he uttered my name made me feel as tall and stately as a monarch. _Hope_: he spoke it with such confidence, almost reverence, as if my name formed a very dear part of his inner being. Oft times, we would lounge in our tree-castle, or recline by a stream and when I thought he was asleep, George would say my name once or twice, just to say it.

"Hope needs a proper mount," he said to me one day – he often referred to me in third person. We were returning from a noble quest that did not seem so noble when the rain began to fall in sheets through the tepid summer air. My arms were wrapped around his wet torso, and our bodies stuck together as we rode home astride his large horse, a giant, black beast of an animal named Cosmos. Cosmos had been George's thirteenth birthday present and only now, on the eve of our shared fourteenth birthday, was the horse tame enough, and George experienced enough, to ride.

"A proper mount would be more welcomed than anything I could imagine – except for Piers's return, of course; but I could never hope for anything so wonderful from my mercenary mother. 'I don't believe in gifts,'" I replied, mimicking Mother's shrill voice. I smiled at the thought. It was more prudent to wish for a husband than a horse – though I would much prefer the horse. I shook my head at the things George came up with.

"Then it is lucky indeed that mothers are not the only source of gifts."

I remember thinking nothing of this, too tired from treasure-hunting to pay much heed to the nonsense that often issued from George's silly mind. But when I spotted the dainty bay grazing in front of my home, my eyes grew wide and a sense of excitement, that tingly feeling one feels at a thrilling possibility, awakened me anew.

As I recall, I feared mentioning the mare, as if acknowledgment might somehow cause her to disappear, like a tempting mirage that evaporates into the desert air; so, I said nothing. But I had remembered the seemingly trivial statement George had made earlier, and my mind began dancing to the lively tune of possibility.

George halted Cosmos a few meters away from the mare, which I still believed to be some sort of magic illusion, and leaped down to the ground far below. I bit my lip in uncertainty as he took hold of my narrow waist, and I extended my feet to the earth, expecting George to set me down. Instead, he carried me gingerly towards the grazing mare. I could not contain my curiosity any longer.

"George…"

He smiled his bright smile, his dark curls framing his still boyish face. With little effort – though boyish in appearance, below his stately clothes he was quickly developing the body of a man – he lifted me onto the mare's back. I did not even notice the horse. My eyes were completely focused on my childhood friend who seemed to be paying me inordinate attentions as of late. My cheeks burned with redness even in the cool rain.

"George…," I repeated.

"Hope must learn to hope – even for the impossible," he said with a tone of unfamiliar acumen. George was not the sermonizing type, so this impromptu adage startled me – but it also warmed me in ways I can only now explain. His mien turned to gaiety again, and he bowed a chivalrous bow as he said gallantly, "Please accept this birthday present from a captivated, but completely earnest, admirer."

I shook my head, mouth agape, as if not comprehending.

"I ask nothing in return, save an invigorating renewal of the hope I have been so gently nurturing these past years."

I waited, hoping – as George would praise me for – that this was leading where I anticipated.

"A tender kiss from my tender Hope."

I blush now as I remember that first kiss in the balmy August rain. There was no hesitation on my part – for which I was switched most severely when Mother got hold of me, though I remember not crying with pain, but smiling with recollection. I flew into George's arms and kissed him squarely on the lips most ardently. I had no expertise or prior experience in that field, but I must have done something right, for I can still taste his yearning mouth, the feel of his lips, softer than a baby's bottom, begging me not to stop.



A warmth enveloped me there on that hill, despite the biting wind – warmth I had not felt since George last held me three years past as we sobbed our goodbyes. He had left for Oxford – that dreadful institution that had now claimed the two most important people in my life – shortly after we turned fourteen, leaving me more alone than I had ever been. Hestia, the name I had given to the frolicsome bay mare, became a daily torment, as I could not look upon her without incurring the pain of memory.

Now, four years later, I was determined to never again be so helpless, so lonely again.

George Boleyn was somewhere in this massive, chaotic city. I hoped – the endeavor that had kept me alive these four years past – that I could find him. But even more earnestly, I hoped he would remember the affection he once proclaimed for me: that London and the revelries of courtly life had not made a new man out of the George I loved.


End file.
